


You Only Watched

by jouyato



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Murder, Nightmares, mildly non-linear, the description for the murders arent that graphic but theyre there so uh.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 08:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18796843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouyato/pseuds/jouyato
Summary: An exploration of a man's dreams after witnessing a murder in which he did nothing.





	You Only Watched

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo uwu. this is a thing for school. also it's still in its draft stages so uh. id appreciate some thoughts on it. it's complete tho!!!! rushed and a bit bad but complete!!!
> 
> (ms. rose if u see this while checking for plagiarism online i didnt plagiarize anything!!! im good child)

Today I dreamt of the Rothkos again. It was the same old dream with Mr. Rothko poised on his knees, hands overhead with the bloodied knife, slick with Mrs. Rothko’s blood glistening ruby red. The woman raised her arms towards me as always but instead of an outstretched palm grasping for help, an accusing finger was pointed at my direction instead.

_Stab._

She was underneath me as I moved to raise my arms again for another strike. She wasn’t looking at me though, as her head was tilted to the side, eyes wide and features contorted in outraged condemnation at someone watching us.

_Stab._

I was at the seventh strike and I knew I’d have to go through five more for this to end. ‘Just five more, just five more, just five more,’ I repeated as a mantra in my head.

_Stab._

My wife’s mouth opened and a scream pierced through the air. But it wasn’t her voice. It was the voice of our neighbor, John. Sobs resounded as the apartment corridor flooded with saline tears. It pooled underneath us three, washing us in blood and regret.

The scream grew louder and I couldn’t think anymore. I wanted it all to end.

Just four more.

Just four more.

* * *

On the 5th of May 1970, I watched as Mrs. Rothko from the apartment next door was murdered. She was stabbed twelve times on the dusty, carpeted hallway outside our front doors and the one with the murder weapon was her husband.

She screamed, I remembered; and even though she perhaps did not see me, her arms stretched towards the general direction of my apartment, as if crawling over next door to ask for help.

I stood there staring dumbfoundedly at her twisted body as Mr. Rothko violently wrought a bloody kitchen knife over and into his wife's chest and neck. I was surprised. I could not speak nor blink. Perhaps I should've called the police or even shut my eyes at that moment so as to prevent the oncoming repetitions of that scene in my head, but instead I did nothing.

Mr. Rothko haltingly stopped after the twelfth strike. By then, Mrs. Rothko's screams were long silenced. He left the knife inside her mangled, bloody chest, dropped his hands to his side, and headed back calmly inside their apartment.

I had stayed put watching the air where Mr. Rothko had knelt over his wife before taking one last look at the mangled body that once used to be my neighbor and following Mr. Rothko's suit as I didn't know what else to do. My mind had strangely blanked out with the incident and all I could think of was that I had decided to get my groceries done at an extremely inconvenient time. I laid down on the living room couch, unnoticing of something clawing its way up my throat as I fixed the cushion underneath and decided to put off grocery shopping at a later date.

* * *

In this dream, _maman_ clutched my arm tightly as she hid me behind her back. People around us hurried along, eyes averting the scene as the officer started shouting loudly, visibly angry. I tensed in fear as _maman_ whispered an order in a harsh tone.

(I can’t remember what.)

(She died afterwards, didn’t she?)

* * *

The police came later that night after the scream of Ms. Burroughs, the office lady who lived in front of me and the Rothkos. She was wrapped in a blanket, distress clear on her face when I was called outside by the officers for questioning.

I was taken in for confinement after relaying to them what I had witnessed. The circumstance of my position as a witness to the murder who did not immediately call in the crime was apparently suspect. I don’t blame them for thinking of me as an accessory to the murder. Even I felt puzzled about why I simply stood stock still as the event occurred.

I feel a bit guilty.

A few days passed before the police released me from their custody. They had caught Mr. Rothko on the 7th and he ended up confessing everything in a nervous breakdown. When asked about my involvement he said that he hadn’t even noticed my presence as he was too much in a frenzy then.

Everything eventually returned to normal afterwards. The carpet on the apartment corridor was replaced with fresh ones heavily perfumed in an orange scent. Ms. Burroughs went back to blasting her jazz records every time she came back from work. My fridge was back to being stocked with cheap canned beer and eggs. Life managed to straighten itself back again.

But that resolution only extended itself to the waking world. Once I was asleep, unwanted dreams haunted me. The Rothkos were frequent guests, principal actors in the nightmares that plagued me.

With each dream since that day, I felt myself change; my reality twist.

(What really happened then?)

* * *

Mr. Rothko pushed Mrs. Rothko down to the ground as she fled their apartment. She whimpered in fear as her husband pulled out the glinting steel knife and knelt down to trap her in between his legs. As he moved to raise the knife for his first strike, he met my eyes which looked on from the crack of my apartment door and smiled a conspiratorial smile as if saying ‘You’re in on this too.’

I’m in on this too.

I felt the corners of my mouth pull up in a shaky smile, mimicking my accomplice’s manic grin. I feel my whole body quiver as I watch Mr. Rothko execute the deed. Whether in excitement or in fear I didn’t know but the emotion that ran through me froze me in my position.

Once all was done, Mr. Rothko went back into their flat so as to shake off the high of the murder. He’ll be fleeing later from the apartment if everything goes according to our plan. I close my door and go back inside as well, my part as witness done.

The sun rises and alongside it, I wake up.

* * *

Work was as mundane as usual. Even with the dreams, I found that the constant humdrum of life couldn’t be disrupted. It was the same routine of checking, editing, and passing articles. The faces around me faded as I looked through word through word, sentence through sentence, paragraph through paragraph.

I scratched at my pants, longing for the box of cigarettes I used to keep routinely in my pocket before I had to cut on expenses. All around me was the smell of tobacco devoured by my fellow co-workers and oh, I could almost taste the bitter smoke going down my lungs. Sweet relief calming my nerves, stopping the jitters that ran all over my tapping finger and bouncing knee.

A gentle nudge came upon my shoulder, startling me out of my thoughts.

“Need a smoke, bud?”

I chanced a brief glance at the concerned man who worked the next desk over before looking back at the sheaves of paper on my desk. He was a fellow copy editor who started working a month and a half ago, if I remember correctly. Still unacclimatized to the office it seems as everyone knows by now not to disturb me during work. I thought about his offer a bit before answering.

“What brand?”

“Lucky Strikes.”

“It’s fine. Trying to lay off smoking nowadays.”

A beat.

“Got Camels too.”

“… Well alright then. You make a good case.”

He passes me the cigarette stick and goes back to his business as I rummage my satchel for a lighter. Cigarettes were becoming a luxury nowadays with the taxes on it rising because of health risks or some shit like that. A bunch of bullcrap if you ask me. I’d feel more up to work if I didn’t twitch and fidget all the time.

If it weren’t for my evenings at home, I wouldn’t have to abstain from smoking at work but as it is now, I need them more for when I’m alone in an empty apartment with just my thoughts than when reviewing articles mindlessly for hours. The latter’s just mind numbingly boring, making me antsy from inactivity but the former’s of more consequence as when I’m alone, pervasive questions start to rise up from my subconscious with only nicotine and alcohol being able to keep it at bay.

The dreams are troublesome enough as they are with their accusing content. I don’t need my mind making up guilty thoughts when I’m awake as well.

* * *

When I arrive home later that day, I see the building’s landlord, Mr. Hayes, escorting a woman out from the Rothkos’ apartment. She looked excited as she asked, “That low?”

Mr. Hayes nodded. “For the first few months. The price’ll hike back up to normal after a few months. It’s just on a discount now because of-” He waves a free hand by way of explanation before continuing, “-heating issues.”

I coughed at the obvious lie as I passed them by. This caught the woman’s attention and she smiled pleasantly in greeting. Mr. Hayes looked less pleased but quickly sculpted his features into a polite smile. I felt myself grow uncomfortable with both of their eyes turned towards me and thus turned my eyes to the cream walls in reflex.

“Ah. Helen, this is John. He lives in the apartment next door to what, fingers crossed, should soon be yours.”

Helen extends her hand towards me and I stare at it for a moment before shaking it gingerly. I meet her eyes for a moment (Green. They were very green.) and I feel a great discomfort come over me before I look away once again.

“Helen Rook. Pleasure to meet you, John.”

“Jean-Jacques Courteault. Likewise.”

Helen- Ms. Rook looked as if she was about to jump into small talk but thankfully Mr. Hayes cut her off with a cough before she could say anything more.

“Well it seems like John here was just coming back from work. We ought not to bother him too much; he must be tired. Perhaps we should discuss more details back in my office.”

“Ah, yeah. You’re right. Well then have a pleasant noon, John. Hopefully we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

She waves goodbye and I nod in response, quickly moving away from the couple as they in turn head the opposite direction. I felt a sort of uneasiness about the situation.

Aside from the unnerving feeling I got from Ms. Rook, the fact that someone other than the Rothko couple was about to occupy the space they’ve been living in since I moved in this shabby apartment bothered me greatly. I almost feel a sort of fondness for the two after having been privy to their numerous loud shouting matches and arguments for more than half a decade. It was odd to think of another person moving in to replace them this quickly.

It’s barely been two weeks since the incident yet it felt as if everything was already being smoothed out. As if the death and murder of Mrs. Rothko wasn’t eating anyone else on the inside, leaving gaping sinkholes where the unwary fell into abysses of guilt out of nowhere.

I move to unlock my door and find my hands shaking, unable to place the key in its hole properly. I breathe in and out. Jazz plays from Ms. Burroughs’ flat. There is silence in the corridor. No scream resounds this late afternoon.

I feel the shaking travel from my hands to my chest and shoulders and I lose myself to the tremors, letting it run through my body before I refocus and frantically dig through my bag for cigarettes. There was a time and place for letting my conscience take hold of me and it wasn’t in the apartment corridor.

The roll of cheap tobacco was lit and in my lips before I knew it and I inhaled deeply as if clinging on to a lifeline. It tasted extremely bitter but it did its job.

I slid down the carpeted floor and leaned against my locked door. A few minutes of inhales and exhales passed. My heart slowed down from its anxious beat and the tremors settled back down to its home in my fingertips. I almost felt relaxed enough to close my eyes and surrender to the lull of the quiet corridor and soft jazz that flitted about from the door across. But I knew if I did, I’d see a different hall with a dead body trying to reach for me at my side.

So instead I got up, unlocked my door, and went inside, forgoing dinner and immediately passing out on the couch after throwing my cigarette haphazardly on the ash tray.

* * *

When I peeked out this time, I couldn’t see Mr. Rothko’s face. It was as if his features were entirely scratched out and replaced by murky brush strokes of taupe skin tone. He had a knife but when I blinked it would shift into the bayonet of a lazily held rifle then back into the kitchen knife again when my eyes refocused.

Mr. Rothko looked angry. He was shouting while the woman—Mrs. Rothko (Yes, Mrs. Rothko- who else would it be?) was on her knees, back towards me, instead of being straddled.

I blink and the man, Mr. Rothko, was properly holding his rifle this time. He had his finger on the trigger and, with the immense anger distorting the taupe brushstrokes of his face, looked as if he was about to shoot Mrs. Rothko anytime soon.

At that moment, Mrs. Rothko turned towards me. Her face was murky as well but her eyes were an intense green. Those were not her eyes. My neighbors had matching deep brown eyes. Those were not her eyes.

They turned towards me, those orbs of green, and I felt a sort of fear wash over me. I felt myself grow smaller into myself. I felt myself a child in that stare.

Mrs. Rothko opens her mouth and in an imposing tone, she says gravely:

“ _Bouge pas._ ”

I startle awake, covered in sweat.

Do not move.

I looked towards the bedroom door, felt myself staring past it, past the living room, past the front door, towards the lonely corridor. Felt myself watching Mrs. Rothko get stabbed in the hallway twelve times again. Felt myself watching as a soldier shot someone in front of me.

Do not move.

I didn’t move. Not a muscle, not a twitch; I didn’t move, _maman_. I only watched. I only watched as she died.

So don’t go, _maman_. I’m a good child. _Je suis un bon enfant_.

More beads of sweat form around my temples and I feel myself starting to lose consciousness again, my head getting emptier, lighter, with each nudge that digs out something from within me. Everything fades before I could find out what was buried so deeply, enclosed within layers and layers of repression. The sleep that greeted me afterwards was peaceful and dreamless, turning the soil over whatever was hidden and encasing it once again in oblivion.

* * *

The morning comes with a letter from Aunt Edith. It was the usual correspondence asking for my health and wellbeing as well as requesting for me to drop by some time soon for tea and sweets.

It was the same request she’s been sending out for years yet I haven't considered visiting her once since I moved out of Manhattan. A deep shame wells in my gut. Ever since my mother’s death when I was six, she took me in and cared for me like her own child. She took me away from France, away from the war, and away from the pain of my mother's passing.

She brought me up as the model guardian along with Uncle Camille but even after all these years, I still couldn't bring myself to see them as a replacement for my own mother.

Mother loved me. Aunt Edith and Uncle Camille do as well, perhaps, but I cannot say for sure. There was a sinking suspicion within me that whispered of how I had grown numb to affection; built a wall preventing any emotion such as my aunt and uncle’s love from reaching me. An obelisk erected for my mother’s death that surrounded my heart, keeping her love—or what faint memories remained of it—inside, all the while keeping anything else out.

Although still hesitant, I felt as though it was high time for me to change that. I checked my schedule for any leftover work to do, looking for a reason to back out of this. There were none. I sigh and get myself dressed. With the recent events reminding me of how easily one’s life can be reoriented and put into disarray, it only seemed right for me to visit one of the few constants in my years since my mother’s death. Perhaps Aunt Edith and Uncle Camille with all their parental concern could ground me from the delusions that my mind has been feeding me in the past few days before I start to lose myself to them any further.

A breath caught in my chest at the thought of last night’s attack but I quickly dispelled any memories of the incident before the panic grew. I had resolved not to let my dreams interfere with reality. Strange thoughts such as- such as Mrs. Rothko in a completely different situation and speaking a language she obviously did not know… Such thoughts were… absurd.

I shook my head. Better not to think about it. I pulled myself together before heading out to take the train to Manhattan.

* * *

It was a familiar walk throughout the bustling streets of the Lower East Side. Buskers played jazz on each corner as children played hopscotch, skipping through crude chalk markings on the sidewalk while chattering loudly. The apartment where I spent my boyhood eventually came in sight and I took my time to take in its appearance. A nondescript tenement building of faded brown-red brick that looked the same as the ones next to it.

I went inside, greeted by the same scent of citrus that served to mask the musty scent of the decades old building. It smelled, ridiculously enough, like home. Or the closest thing to it anyways. I found myself walking the same steps I had grown accustomed to as I went up the stairs up to the third floor and stopped in front of the second door to the right.

Faint music could be heard from where I stood directly outside the door. It was the classical music Uncle Camille loved. I smile a bit thinking of how he used to teach me the piano as a child. Uncle Camille, while often absent because of work, was very kind to me during the times he was present. In retrospect, both Aunt Edith and he were probably too doting on me.

It was strange only realizing that now. They really did ensure I wanted for nothing and tried to make me feel as if nothing was amiss. (Although it was all for naught seeing as I clearly lost something that left me fractured and scrabbling for an object long gone with my mother’s passing.)

I steeled myself and knocked on the painted wooden door. A brief and faint squabble ensued before Aunt Edith’s thickly accented voice rang out.

“Coming!”

She opened the door and I looked at her finely lined face and strong green eyes before looking down. It made me feel nauseous, those green orbs. It reminded me of the dream I had last night and I couldn’t bear to look at them for too long. The moment I looked away though, Aunt Edith took my face in both of her hands and stared at me wordlessly with tearful eyes before kissing my forehead and bringing me into a tight embrace. I felt myself tense.

“Jean-Jacques…” She said with a slight tremble in her voice. “Oh, you rotten child, you’ve only come home now after all these years.”

I heard a sniffle and composed myself before replying. “I’m sorry, Tante Edith.” My voice trembled as well. “I haven’t visited in so long and I-“

“No- Don’t say that, don’t say that. I’m not mad at you, Jean-Ja. I’m just—Oh come inside already, come. Mille! Jean-Jacques is home!” I felt myself disoriented by the pace of my aunt. It was confusing to have her tend to me so intently but it didn’t feel… bad. A hesitant warmth arose in my chest. I tried to push it down but it remained. It made me feel qualmish.

I was dragged into the living room where my uncle looked up from a soft bound novel, surprise evident on his face. It quickly changed and broke into a warm smile though, framed by deep smile lines around the corners of his mouth.

“Jean-jean! My boy. You’re home!” He abandoned his book on the worn couch and stood up to hug me. All the physical contact I’ve been receiving made me feel a mix of discomfort and embarrassment, mingling with the unwanted warmth from a while ago.

“It’s been so long. Come, sit.” He pulled me over to take a seat on the leather sofa, worn from all the years of use. “I’ll take over preparing lunch. Jean-Jacques, you must catch up with your aunt, she’s been fretting for the past two weeks with your lack of letters.” Aunt Edith gave a puff of mock exasperation as she rolled her eyes. “Must you reveal my worries yourself, Mille?” She pulled in Uncle Camille for a peck on the cheek nonetheless though as he moved to go into the kitchen.

Once he was gone, Aunt Edith sat beside me on the sofa and looked at me inquisitively. “Are you alright, Jean-Ja? You’ve been very… quiet since a while ago. Not that I expected you to be too rowdy, you have always been a quiet child after all. A good child,” She smiled.

I kept my gaze downwards. Truth be told I did not know what to feel. I could still see Aunt Edith’s green eyes, teary, and I didn’t know what to make of it. It stirred something within me that I couldn’t name. She held my face in her hands again at my silence. “Look at you, my boy. You look terrible, I worry for you. It’s like you haven’t slept in weeks. Jean-Ja, please raise your eyes. Look me eye to eye.”

Doing as she said, I met her concerned gaze and couldn’t hold myself back from flinching. “What’s wrong, Jean-Jacques?”

I felt myself standing on the precipice of something, a swirling pool of green at the bottom. I could feel my mother and Mrs. Rothko standing behind me, watching intently as I decided to jump down, unthinking and unfeeling, no longer caring of the consequence.

“My mother. Did she have green eyes as well?”

My voice felt foreign to my ears. It didn’t feel like my own. I waited quietly for her answer but instead she replied with a question of her own. “What brought this on? Why now?”

“She had green eyes, didn’t she? Please answer me, Tante.”

A moment of apprehension passed before she replied. “She does- or did… Have you forgotten, Jean-Ja?”

Something ran all over my body. Realization, memories maybe. I didn’t exactly know. Green eyes and a harsh order telling me ‘ _Do not move_.’ My chest’s thudding was starting to pick up in pace but I pushed through for my final question.

“Tante… Was I there when she- when my mother died?”

I didn’t get to hear her answer before I saw it. A German soldier stood over us as my mother whispered lowly in French, “ _Do not move, Jean. Do not put yourself in his way._ ” A gunshot rings but not before her final order of “ _Do not move_ ” was whispered, her green eyes turning to look at me harshly. Do not move. I watch as she goes down and the German looks at me menacingly. He spits and insults my mother in badly spoken French but I do not flinch. I do not move. I heed my mother’s final words and-

Aunt Edith grabs my arms. “Jean-Jacques!” I startle out of my reverie. The symphony in the background rises for its climax. “Jean-Jacques…” She calls again but says no other words. I can feel warm tears well in my eyes as she pulls me in for an embrace. I had forgotten. I had forgotten _maman_ ’s death.

“Tante,” I begin and I can feel my voice, unsteady and heavy with emotion. “I watched her. I just watched as she-“ I choke on my words with a sob. Aunt Edith was cradling me in her arms, smoothing down my hair. She whispered, “I did not mean to hide it from you. It wasn’t your fault.” Repeated words of comfort that didn’t reach me. _Couldn’t_ reach me.

I feel the hairs at the back of my neck prickle as I start to feel it stab behind me. The two sets of eyes with their accusing glares. I hiccup in fear and quickly stand up. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see it again.

I rambled in a panic, addressing my aunt while I still maintained some semblance of coherence. “I’m sorry Tante Edith. Please tell Uncle Camille that I will join you two for lunch some other time. I-“

I could hear the steps of Mr. Rothko and the German soldier and fear took over me, forcing my feet to flee before the massacres happened. I barely registered my Aunt’s worried voice before I ran out the door, leaving in haste before they could come. Everything came in a trance as I hailed a cab to go back to Penn Station, back to Long Island, back to my apartment. I passed out immediately, coming out of my stupor and into the arms of sleep. Into the arms of the ghosts that haunt me.

* * *

I was a child, barely six when _maman_ ’s sister took me in—my Aunt Edith. Tante Edith. I didn’t know what happened, my memory before waking an empty blank. She told me _maman_ was no longer with us and I asked her where she went.

Where did _maman_ go?

Tante disappeared and in her place, a man took me by the hand. He looked old, dirty blond stubble framing his jaw and hazel eyes tired. He led me outside to a plaza where _maman_ was kneeling in front of an armed soldier, a child behind her. I wanted to rush up to her but the man held me back, his grip on my hand tight.

He looked at me before smiling wryly and saying in a rough voice, “ _Regarde_.” Watch.

I looked on as he said.

The soldier raised his gun and with a final shout of anger, shot _maman_ through the chest. Then when she was still kneeling instead of on the ground, through the head. I watched on. _Regarde_.

People moved on, quickly walking by so as to stay uninvolved. They didn’t spare a second glance. _Maman_ ’s corpse rolled over as the soldier kicked her over. She stared through the still child behind her and towards me, meeting my eyes with her piercing green stare. But the woman wasn’t her anymore. Instead of _maman’s_ soft brown locks that were always pulled back neatly in a bun, loose curly hair framed Jewish features that were contorted in fear and pain.

Mrs. Rothko was trapped in between her husband’s legs in the carpeted hallway of our apartment. She reached a hand over to me and the boy who I was holding on to tightly in fear. I wanted to wrench my eyes away from the scene as Mr. Rothko moved to raise his arms for the first strike but the boy beside me whispered:

“Bouge pas. Regarde juste,” in a calm, childlike voice.

Do not move. Just watch.

Mrs. Rothko smiles a sickeningly sweet smile as she holds my eyes with her gaze during the fourth strike and starts laughing pleasantly during the fifth, when I still hadn’t moved my eyes away, continuing to stare and watch.

“You are a good child, John.”

I feel myself struggling to escape by the eight. Mr. Rothko still wasn’t moving to stop. I wanted to move my limbs. I wanted to run. I wanted to take Mrs. Rothko’s outstretched hand and drag her away from her husband and his kitchen knife. But I couldn’t. Each time I try to move, I can hear my mother’s voice.

“Bouge pas, Jean. Lui gêne pas.”

Don’t move, don’t get in his way. Is it because I’ll be hurt too, _maman_? Am I not hurting as I watch you and Mrs. Rothko die?

I feel tears streak down my cheek and I finally break free from the chains of my mother’s words and crumble in grief. My knees hit the carpeted hallway and the boy’s, paved stone. He scrambles for his mother as I curl in on myself, mourning my compliance in yet another murder. The sadness was overwhelming and it felt wrong inside my chest—wrong as if I didn’t have the right to feel such a way. I looked up and saw the reason why.

Mr. Rothko and the German soldier stared down at my crumpled figure in condemnation. ‘ _You’re to blame too_ ’ their eyes say and guilt quickly replaces grief. I could’ve stopped them but instead I did nothing. I played as accomplices in their crimes.

I heave the contents of my stomach over the edge of the bed as I lurch awake.

I feel dirty.

* * *

The noose felt light yet infinitely heavy on my hands as I secured it on a hook I nailed into the ceiling. For atonement, I say to myself as I slip the loop around my neck. I looked towards the side of the room where my mother and Mrs. Rothko watched, faces clear of emotion as the soldier and Mr. Rothko stood behind them. Aunt Edith and Uncle Camille were in the kitchen beyond the living room where I was, looking happy and at peace as they chatted to themselves, unaware of my presence.

The boy with blond hair looked on from below me, hazel eyes wide and expectant as he held onto the edge of the chair I was standing on. He mouthed a soft goodbye my way and looked towards his mother.

I look towards her and Mrs. Rothko as well. The men behind them smiled sinisterly but did nothing else, staying with their feet planted on the ground, unmoving. They all simply looked on. This time it was their turn to stay still and watch.

The small boy looked at me one last time before he pushed the chair and it fell down, my feet kicking it away. My feet hung from the air, the knot above me immediately tightening on my nape, constricting around my throat and preventing any intake of breath as all the weight in my body pushed onto the rough fibrous rope around my neck. I struggled against the noose, legs kicking as if trying to search for a foothold before my vision began to blur, the people in the room flickering away from the edges of my peripherals. I felt indignation rise in me.

But they should all be watching! They should all be staying put and **watching**.

I looked back down towards the boy and he met my stare with his own blank one before disappearing along with the others. I tried to summon up the anger from earlier but found that I couldn’t with my brain rapidly losing oxygen. Everything was starting to mesh together, mixing into a blurry mess of dull colours surrounded by a growing darkness at the edges.

I struggled for one last breath and failed. The hook from above me gave out and I felt my body hit the wooden floor before my consciousness faded.

A final thought flits through my head in the last seconds of my awareness.

I hope they were still watching.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading if anyone would be so nice as to give me opinions on what more they felt the work lacked that would be nice. uhhhh.... i guess im sorry for the rushed ending idk how else I couldve gotten the mc to kill himself.


End file.
